Trading Lives
by Trish47
Summary: Emma's world has gone topsy-turvy and things are not turning out well. For one, she's locked in a tower. For another, her father's responsible for Killian's death. How will she make everything right? By making a deal with the Author. Finale spec fic based on tumblr discussions and theories. Oneshot. Complete.


**Potential SPOILERS for S4 finale abound in this ficlet because it's based on finale speculation floating around on tumblr and from a specific line of mryddinwilt's spec fic in which Charming is the one who "kills" Hook.**

 **College finals bring out my inner angst.**

 **Disclaimer: All rights belong to ABC and Adam &Eddy.**

* * *

Trading Lives

The world has gone topsy-turvy. Reality jostles between the profoundly bizarre and the unfathomably cruel. In this version of the story, her parents are filled with malice instead of righteousness. Fearful villagers cry for _Rumpelstiltskin_ to slay dragons. It's a realm where a pirate skilled in the art of survival. . .takes his final breaths.

 _Took_ , she observes in a detached inner voice because her body cannot physically withstand another round of sobbing. _Everything here is wrong_.

The happy ending she once glimpsed in the soft pinks and lilacs of a quiet sunrise has been severed by the swing of a blade wielded by a now-merciless man: King Charming, her father.

It didn't matter that Killian could not remember her, that he didn't know theirs was a love which would fill the next generation of storybooks with redemption arcs and secret trysts and unnecessary dashing rescues. He'd had nothing but an inkling that they'd end up as ships passing in the night.

Emma had known better. She remembered every snarky comment, every suggestive eyebrow, every kiss he'd snuck when her parents weren't looking, and every display of affection when they were in full view.

Her torment was in remembering. It made it impossible to say goodbye, though her father's guards tearing her from Killian's side hadn't helped.

Each coughing gasp punctuating his final moments had pierced through her. Cracks veined across her heart-a glass chamber still delicate after years of feeling she didn't deserve love, of believing she would never find true happiness. The cushion she'd been constructing with the help of those around her wasn't enough to protect her heart from the blow of losing Killian.

Now her fragile heart is shattered. Absolutely shattered.

At that moment, she felt the touch of darkness raking its taloned finger up her spine saying, _Come, child. Let me show you way._

But her father was not himself. She couldn't seek vengeance on a man who was just as much a victim as her boyfriend. _Besides_ , she thought, _Killian wouldn't want that._

* * *

Days-perhaps weeks-worth of sunrises and sunsets pass over the single sliver of window set high in the stone wall. Her body lies dormant, slumped on the ground in a mess of gray feathers and tulle. She's ceased her fight against the shackles tethering her to a nightmare which won't end.

As her condition deteriorates, her mind remains lucid. It rages against the path her story has taken, but berates her lack of action as much as it does the selfish actions of Rumpelstiltskin and the Author.

She withers until she recalls a night outside of Granny's diner and the ensuing conversation about the trade of a certain beloved ship. All is not lost. She has no vessel, no physical leverage, but she has something better: an idea.

On unsteady legs, she rises and surges against her iron chains, letting loose a wail so blood-curdling it deafens her own ears as it echoes through the tower chamber. She screams until her voice is hoarse, until it peters out into a shriveled cry. . .

. . .until the tower door opens and closes.

"You called?" With crossed arms and peaked eyebrows, he leans against the wooden door. When he catches her amazed look, he waves off her wonder. "We can all hear you down below. Your mother seems to enjoy it."

Finding her voice, she remarks, "No one's come before."

His lips curl in a Cheshire manner. "Something's changed. Your cry: it was different. It sounded like the beginning of a plot twist."

She huffs-a dry laugh. It's all absurd. This world. Their conversation. The offer she's about to propose because it may be her only chance to bargain. "I want to make a deal."

"I trade in stories, not _deals_." He whines through the last word.

Emma rephrases: "I have a story for you."

"In exchange for that pirate of yours?"

Her arms jerk against her bonds in response to his perception, instinctively reaching out to grasp the thread of hope he's dangling on a string. _It can be done. I can get him back._

Then she remembers it is not only Killian's life at stake. Her parents, Regina and Robin, Henry, and all the others whom she has come to call friends and family: they must be included in her plan. She must push for order to be fully restored, not merely handed a crutch on which to balance.

"Everything goes back to how it was in Storybrooke before the role reversal," she defines. "That's my price."

A glint of greed twinkles in his squinted eyes. "Must be one wallop of a tale at such a steep cost."

"It's the one you've been itching for since we released you from the book: the Savior becomes the Dark One."

The possibilities for corrupted characters and tragic outcomes roll between his pressed lips as he considers her proposal. "You'll sacrifice your happy ending?"

For the span of a deep breath, her eyes flutter closed to see her fairytale one last time: walking hand-in-hand along the shore with Killian on cool spring mornings, making three cups of cocoa with cinnamon on blustery fall afternoons, gathering at Granny's for holiday meals shared with family and friends. She pictures the smiling faces and quaint shops of the town she now calls home. Her happy ending isn't too much to ask if it ensures theirs are restored.

 _Well, maybe all but one_ , she corrects. Killian may never forgive her, but she hopes he'll understand.

"I will be your Queen of Darkness," Emma agrees. "A queen such as you have _never_ seen."

His smile broadens. "Let's put this in writing, shall we?"

He hums to himself as he sits on the stone floor and removes his writing instruments from the satchel which never leaves his side: the jar of ink, the featherless quill, and the leather-bound pages of a story about to receive some heavy revision.

Holding his quill an inch from the page, he pauses to give her a final questioning glance.

She begins: "Once upon a time. . ."


End file.
